


The Ugly Duckling

by ferretsoda



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Inquisitor Being an Asshole, Makeover, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-12-13 18:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11766084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferretsoda/pseuds/ferretsoda
Summary: "Inquisitor. I have come to a conclusion."The Inquisitor, her mouth full of savory meat, made a small noise of nervous curiosity."I cannot teach you to become a lady."The two younger women exchanged panicked looks, before looking at the duchess. She let them squirm and stew in anxiety for a few moments, before her lip curled in a sneering smile."But I can teach you to become a gentleman."





	1. Chapter 1

 

"Fifty silver says she takes the Bull."

"Megwyn, the odds of that happening are astronomical."

A flock of female soldiers leisurely made their way to the Herald's Rest, chattering about only the most exciting news to hit Skyhold: the costume ball at the Winter Palace. News of the Inquisitor's invitation to such a glittering event spread like wildfire. The Inquisitor,  _their_  Inquisitor, was going to a ball! Unbeknownst to Lavellan and her council, there was a rather large betting pool over who she would choose to accompany her. The current favorites were Dorian and Cassandra. As the ladies sat down at a table, drinks in tow, one woman held her head in her hands and sighed.

"What's wrong, Ann?" Megwyn asked. Her friend's eyes glazed over dreamily.

"The Inquisitor's just so...  _lucky_."

 

* * *

 

" **WRONG!**  Do it again!"

The sharp voice was accompanied by an even sharper "crack" of a cane striking the floor.

"Now... the Dame du Malefils!"

"Ser!"

"The Marquis de Salmont!"

"Y... Your Grace-"

"Do not hesitate in your answer, child! And keep your arms at your side!"

An older woman circled the Inquisitor like a shark, making minor adjustments by poking and prodding her with her cane. Just as she was about to speak, the door opened. Josephine's smiling face peeked through, before she slipped in and bowed slightly to each of them.

"Forgive the intrusion, Inquisitor, Duchess, but luncheon is served," she announced. The elf visibly relaxed, daring to breathe a sigh of relief. However, as the duchess whipped her head back at her, she snapped back to attention. The Orlesian noblewoman narrowed her eyes for a moment, before focusing on her former pupil again.

"Thank you, Josephine. We shall use this as an opportunity to teach the 'Inquisitor' some table manners."

 

The duchess and Josephine made their way to an elegant table in a room overlooking Skyhold's small garden. Inquisitor Lavellan sulked after them, hands thrust deep in her pockets. When the ambassador had recommended this "Duchess du Sanscoeur" as a tutor for Orlesian etiquette, she had painted a completely different picture-- instead of a warm, motherly teacher, they were met by an old battleaxe with a hawk-like nose. Unlike the other Orlesian nobles she'd met, this one wore a deep, navy gown with soft black lace circling her neck. She was surprised by the lack of a mask, too, and had asked her about it.

_"I am no longer seen as a threat by my fellow noblemen, and so I have no need to hide behind a mask. Instead I wile away my days teaching rude little children such as yourself how to behave."_

It made the elf's cheeks burn in anger and embarrassment just thinking about it. How dare she be insulted in her own fortress?! She was not a  _child_ -

" **Child!** "

The Inquisitor jumped out of her seat like it was on fire. The duchess stared her down, masking slow-burning rage.

"We do not. Sit. Before seating the guests," she managed to force out from clenched teeth. Lavellan shot a nervous look at Josephine, who responded with a disappointed one (damn that woman and her puppy-dog eyes). Lavellan scrambled over to the dowager and gently helped her into her chair, before doing the same for Josephine. She then ran back to her seat, nearly slipping off of it. While this made her ambassador titter, the duchess was not so amused. She instead calmly unfolded her napkin, before helping herself to a bowl of grapes. Josephine followed suit, with the Inquisitor in tow as she nervously cracked a walnut open, spraying shell fragments everywhere.  
"E-er, sorry," she mumbled, brushing the bits off the nice frilly tablecloth. A visible vein could now be seen pulsating in the dowager's temple. She studied the elf for a long time, taking the occasional sip of vintage from her goblet. Josephine made small talk with her in an attempt to help the Inquisitor relax under the scrutinizing gaze. Finally, she dabbed her mouth with her napkin, set it on her plate, and steepled her hands together.

"Inquisitor. I have come to a conclusion."

The Inquisitor, her mouth full of savory meat, made a small noise of nervous curiosity.

"I cannot teach you to become a lady."

The two younger women exchanged panicked looks, before looking at the duchess. She let them squirm and stew in anxiety for a few moments, before her lip curled in a sneering smile.

"But I can teach you to become a gentleman."

 

* * *

 

 

Varric flipped the parchment over once more, in the hopes that the intended owner's name would magically appear. Surely this couldn't be his, could it? The messenger must have mixed him up with someone else-- Dorian, probably. Knowing Lavellan's tastes, she'd probably want a flashy mage like Sparkler there. He re-read the crisp paper once more:

 

_"The Inquisitor Lavellan_

_requests your company in attending the_

_costume ball_

_to be held at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral, Orlais._

_Formal attire required."_

 

The dwarven storyteller scratched his head, face scrunched. There was nothing denoting it was  _specifically_  for him, no little footnote, nothing. No, this was definitely a slip-up. Varric slid off of his chair and out the door, tucking the letter safely into his coat pocket.

Ever since the whole "Men's Follie" debacle, things had been... iffy between them. Well,  _he_  certainly had a good time, and he'd gladly do it again. And again. And again. No one else had dared to tease the Inquisitor since her rise to power, so he willingly took up the mantle. And even though she deserved all the ribbing he threw at her, Varric always delighted in seeing her reaction. With the ball coming up fast, he imagined her ego swelling up to the size of Skyhold itself. Now, more than ever, did Lavellan require his services. Even if she didn't know it yet.

 

As he walked down a seemingly average hallway, Varric thought he heard the faint tinkle of music. The dwarf stopped, glanced around, and tried to follow the music to its source. It sounded swaying and genteel, almost like a... a waltz? Whatever it was, It was loudest behind a large, oak door, that one near the stairwell. Varric pressed his ear to the door, and could hear a muffled voice speaking in time with the music. Carefully turning the handle, he pushed the door open a crack to peek inside.

 

The room was longer than it was wide. The morning sunlight was softly streaming in through high windows, bathing everything in pale yellows and golds. Combined with the musicians' playing, it gave the illusion of feeling like a miniature ballroom. Where the light hit the floor, illuminating the stone brightly, that's where he saw them, two silhouettes.

The woman he slowly recognized as Josephine, though it was unusual seeing her out of her trademark gold outfit. Instead she wore a simple lemon-hued tunic and a long, pleated skirt. Every time her partner twirled her, the pleats would ripple hypnotically. Varric pushed the door open more until he was all the way inside. They seemed distracted enough that they didn't notice him. Quietly, he took a seat on the edge of an aged, worn bench and continued to observe.

The young man she was dancing with was a bit stiff, as though he was unfamiliar with the very concept of dancing itself. An older woman at the far end of the room called out instructions to the pair of them, waving a cane in time with the music like a conductor. Every so often she'd raise her voice at the man, who would flinch and correct himself. Ruffles and her partner worked well together, though-- even the way their clothing swayed and swished slowly synchronized. The billowy sleeves on the elf's shirt were a pleasant contrast to his lithe figure.  _Like little clouds-- no, no, like snow-laden boughs on a tree. Much better_ , he thought, nodding to himself.

"Veeeery good, now Josephine you go-- yes, hold your position while she spins," the older woman called, pointing at the man. As Montilyet spun once more, Varric's eyes drifted from her to her elven partner. For a few bars he stood, before he slowly turned, finally giving the dwarf a good look at his face. 

And then it hit him.

"Now for the dip! Take her hands, remember to keep your weight on your  **left**  leg," Duchess du Sanscoeur ordered. She had seen Varric slip in but said nothing. The elderly woman tracked the Inquisitor with a wolf's eyes, slowly circling to the other side of the room as the song neared its end.

 

The Inquisitor had conquered dragons. She had been in the Fade and lived to tell the tale. She had cheated death on numerous occasions. Somehow, learning to be a gentleman had proved to be the most arduous task yet.

"Keep your eyes downcast, child! Remember you are here to ensure Josephine enjoys herself." She quickly flit her eyes to the floor, maintaining a calm expression. That was one of the many rules about being a gentleman, she had learned: you were not the center of attention-- you were her servant. Or as the Duchess had put it: "Ladies of high station are the roses in the garden, and the gentlemen are busy bees." Josephine was an obliging partner, at least: always patient with her mistakes, and eager to help. And she knew to keep her mouth shut, too. If word of any of this ever got out-- ah, but now it was time for the grande finale.

The two ladies circled around the room, until they came to a spot on the floor marked by an "X" written in chalk. Josephine squeezed her hand and shoulder as a signal, allowing the elf to slide her leg forward. Wrapping a strong arm around the ambassador's waist, the pair dipped beautifully. Indulging herself, the darker woman tilted her head back, smiling giddily. With the duchess' words about expression still ringing in her ears, Lavellan slightly raised her eyebrows yet kept her eyes hooded, appearing aloof yet quietly passionate. She could feel the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Was this the feeling of accomplishment? Or the sparkling tingle of excitement? Or was it...?

 

The Inquisitor slowly looked up through her lashes, until her entire head snapped up. There, sitting two, maybe three feet away from them, was Varric with the single-most smug gaze she'd ever had the misfortune of meeting. What's worse, his head was propped up on his fist, like a father who was watching his children play make-believe. That, or the rotten, flea-bitten alley cat that had just hit the jackpot of cream.

It was too much.

"What on  _Thedas_  are you doing?" he asked, the question dripping with ridicule. Extreme panic seized Lavellan by the throat. She released her dance partner immediately, allowing the Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet to hit the floor like a ton of bricks. In a rare display of anger, the ambassador swung a leg at her partner's feet, making the elf trip backwards over and onto the floor. By now, the dowager was storming over, prepared to beat the Maker out of all  _three_  of them. Varric quickly leapt up to help Josephine to her feet, while the dowager yanked the Herald up by her ear.

"What is the meaning of this?!" du Sanscoeur demanded, accompanied by Lavellan's tiny cries of "owowow". Varric was momentarily distracted by the delightful sight of their leader being disciplined (for  _once_ ). Shaking his head, he smiled and briefly flashed the letter from his pocket.

"I humbly beg your pardon, madame, but I need to have a word with your... student," he purred. The vice-like grip of the old woman released the scruffy elf's ear, who nearly crumpled to the floor. Clutching the side of her head and refusing to meet his eye, she silently followed him to the door, until the sound of " **CHILD!** " made her falter. She quickly spun on her heel, one arm at her side, the other pressed into her stomach, hand curved upward, and gave an obedient bow. Doing this in front of Varric only made it more demeaning.

 

The second the door shut behind them, she was at his throat, grabbing him by the lapels.

"If you breathe one word of this to anyone, I will kill you. I will fucking.  **End**  you," she hissed venomously, her face inches from his. Varric was laughing too much to take the threat seriously.

"Couldn't make the cut, could you?" he choked out, wresting her hands from his duster and patting one soothingly. "Let me guess: she took one look at you and said, 'Nope, I'm sorry, but I have to draw the line somewhere.'" The Inquisitor tore her hand away as he continued laughing, her face blooming with bright red anger.

"Look, what do you WANT-" she started, but quickly hushed herself and glanced at the door, before resuming in a quieter tone. "What do you want?"

"Is this for me?" Fear flashed across Lavellan's face upon recognition of the paper he now held. She froze.

"Yes, what of it?" she finally muttered as she turned towards the door, idly fiddling with her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him smile warmly.

"Thanks, Your Inquisitorialness."

It wasn't until later that evening that the Inquisitor recognized the tune he hummed as he left. It was the same waltz she had been dancing to.

 

She heard it coming out of the Herald's Rest-- that, and gales of laughter.


	2. Hatch Out

 

_"Let me be frank, child. By the time I have taught you all I know about "The Game", you will not be just a gentleman: you will be a weapon. A universal beauty, appealing to everyone. But you will be the most deadly, as well. They will all want to speak to you, but they will know you are elven. They will risk their lives to be seen with you by the end of the evening. If that alone is not enticing enough, then I will take my leave here and now."_

 

The Inquisitor splashed water onto her face, rubbing the aching muscles gingerly. It was well past two o'clock in the morning, and she hadn't eaten since mid-afternoon. She nearly looked up into the mirror, but stopped herself-- force of habit. An annoying force of habit that the Duchess du Sanscoeur had drilled into her these past few weeks. One could only hope it would take less time to forget.

Collapsing onto her bed, Lavellan groaned.

She felt like an old, splintered drumstick, beating the same rhythm for too long.

At first, she had been utterly clueless about reading people's reactions, but with the careful teachings of her mentor, it became second nature. There were always telltale signs, or "calls" to look out for: a twitch of the brow, a curled lip, fiddling with jewelry. She'd even overheard Josephine tell Leliana that she had "really come into her own" (whatever that meant). These last five days were filled with courses in manipulation, ranging from flirting to instigation to veiled threats of blackmail. And that was just the tip of the iceberg; throw in dancing lessons, etiquette, vocal training (she hoped the slight change in pitch wasn't permanent), acting, and history. Everything had to be hewn to match the latest Orlesian trends. It made one's head reel. 

Over the course of their training, the Inquisitor and the Duchess had found a common wavelength. She had slowly come to learn why she was training to become a gentleman. Not just for the "social engineering" skills (as Sanscoeur would refer to them). She was revenge. Revenge against whatever the Orlesian nobility had done to this woman in her lifetime.

 

She could live with that.


	3. Molting

 

It just hit her out of nowhere.

There she was, sitting in the wooden bathtub with a wet washcloth plastered to her head, pretending to listen to Josephine and Leliana read reports as they paced around the checkerboard marble floor.

And then...

...then everything felt still. Frozen. Like she was the only thing in the universe for a fraction of a second. As though the Maker himself had gently touched her on the brow, she slowly sat upright. The cloth slipped off her head and into the foamy water. Seeing their leader rise, Josephine moved to hand her a towel, when she noticed the elf's expression.

For the first time since they'd met, the Herald looked... serene. At peace. One with the world. Almost like Andraste. It made the ambassador nervous.

"I... Inquisitor? Are you... feeling alright?" she asked hesitantly. The young woman made no reply, instead taking the towel and silently waiting for the pair of them to leave. It took them a few moments to get the hint. Once they were on the other side of the door, they were immediately worried that she was suffering from some previous blow to the head.

"We've got four hours to go. I'm not going to risk losing everything we've worked for because the Inquisitor is feeling... unwell," Leliana whispered harshly, pounding a fist into an open palm.

"It must be nerves. It has to be."

The door swung open, barely giving either of them enough time to get out of the way. Out strode the Inquisitor, the towel around her shoulders looking more like a heroic mantle. The air around her no longer felt serene and peaceful. She turned to face them. Josephine, ever the romantic, would later swear that even the Herald's facial features had changed, while Leliana would disagree and say it was just a trick of the light. Still, they met Lavellan's steely gaze with some apprehension.

"Any attempts made on the Empress' life will be crushed by my hand," she stated. One could feel the fervent, yet tempered power resonate from her words.

The two women watched their leader walk off in disbelief.

"Did you teach her that?"

 

 

* * *

 

  
Pre-party jitters were a perfectly natural thing. Cassandra was unfazed by them, having attended many dull soirees in her life. Blackwall and Varric, not so much. The two men had had casual get-togethers in the Herald's Rest, sure, but this was on a completely different tier.

"It must be the uniforms. Has to be," Varric suggested, a slightly desperate tone in his voice. The Warden and rogue stood in the foyer, at the foot of a grand staircase. They had been allowed to stay at a nobleman's winery and make use of his staff for the event. However, with the Inquisition there, it was more like a constantly-buzzing beehive. Blackwall tugged on his collar for the umpteenth time, and glanced out the nearest window. A deep, velvet blue sky contrasted the warm, golden hues of the large entrance. His own reflection in the large glass panes seemed unfamiliar: for one thing, his hair had been washed and combed.

"We've fought demons. Dragons. So why am I getting nervous about a bunch of..." The man gestured helplessly.

"Pompous, arrogant, delusional, shut-ins with starched collars?"

Blackwall laughed, his shoulders softening a bit. "Exactly."

Out of the corner of the dwarf's eye, he spotted a servant coming by with a tray with two goblets.

"I've got just the remedy for that," he said with a wink, and snatched the drinks while hastily mentioning to the servant girl something about the Inquisitor wanting him to test them for poison. He offered a cup to Blackwall, but the man seemed hesitant.

"Isn't it a bit... early? I don't want to... to say something I'll regret tomorrow."

He looked wary. He was choosing his words carefully. Varric made a mental note to dig into that later. For now, though, he shoved the goblet into the man's massive hand.

"Think of it as a little liquid courage." He clinked their cups together a little _too_ hastily and took a gulp. He'd admit only under the most excruciating torture that yes, Varric Tethras himself was actually nervous. Just a tiny bit. He never turned to alcohol for a morale boost, but desperate times and all that. Besides, they were staying in a winery. Only an idiot would pass up _that_ chance.

As Varric took another sip, he absentmindedly noticed how the room was filling up with even more people. Blackwall had stalked off to procure some more "liquid courage" (though he promised this was his last one), leaving the dwarf there standing in the center of the room, awkwardly staring into his goblet. Suddenly, a choir of "ooh"s and "aah"s cried out around him, startling him out of his thoughts. He spotted numerous figures walking down the stairs in unison.

Leading the entourage were the familiar faces of the war council. Varric gave a low appreciative whistle as he saw their uniforms: rich red with a blue silk sash across the breast. They held their heads high, each smiling a little differently-- Leliana's a bit reserved, Josephine practically beaming, and Cullen very pomp and circumstance.

As multiple guards in formal armor followed, there was a gradual change in the foyer. The air was slowly becoming... electrified? Buzzing? Whatever it was, Varric could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knew what everyone was waiting for.

 

And then _she_ appeared.

This was not the Inquisitor. It _couldn't_ have been.

For one thing, she practically poured down the steps, like quicksilver. Varric could hardly believe this was the same elf who threw snowballs at him. Even the very way she carried herself was a complete 180. She kept her eyes downcast, an enigmatic hint of a smile on her lips. Her face had been painted, but the application was so subtle, one had to get right up in her face to see the strokes. The natural rosiness to her cheeks had been dulled, and her brows painted a bit thicker. Once-chapped lips were now dewy. Her usual mop of hair had been tamed into a dashing style: brushed back, parted at the temple, then the forelocks styled to the side. Small curls over her ears had been cut and primped to look like sideburns. She looked like a prince, and a dashing one at that. Varric was surprised there weren't roses blooming behind her.

Her uniform was the same style as her council's, but the jacket was a silvery white. It had the obnoxious effect of shimmering ever so slightly with her movements, making it harder for Varric to tear his eyes away. Not that he wanted to- this was unbelievable. This was like seeing a nug tear a Darkspawn's throat out-- it just- it didn't _happen_. In fact, he was almost convinced he was having some sort of feverish dream.

The Inquisitor was in the middle of putting her gloves on when she spotted him. Something flashed across her face and suddenly the spell was broken. She threw them down and made her way towards the (understandably bewildered) dwarf like a gathering storm. As she got closer, Varric could see more details of her makeup. A dark, deep blue mascara and eyeliner had been applied, complementing her eye's natural color.

"TETHRAS!" the Inquisitor barked. He could only stare up at her, his mouth suddenly dry and brain suddenly empty. All eyes were on them.

"Is ruining your host's carpet before a ball some dwarven custom?"

Varric's eyebrows shot up and he looked down at his empty hands, before spotting the offending stain and goblet on the carpet. When did that happen? He didn't even feel it slip out of his grasp!

"W-well n-n-no, I-I-I-I-" the celebrated dwarven author yammered.

" 'I-I-I-I'! You big dummy!" Lavellan interrupted, leaning down at him. The crowds broke into waves of laughter. Varric's face turned a nice shade of red, and he tried to hide it by scratching behind his head. He opened his mouth, witty retort at the ready, but she was quicker.

"How long have we been staying here?"

"Wh-- uh, s-s-six days, but-"

"Six days and you've already destroyed the owner's property, well done. Will the Empress' carpets be safe, or should I send warning?"

Blackwall must have caught her eye, because she suddenly sidestepped the dwarf and glided over to him. Varric was still reeling, but he could see he wasn't the only one; the older man practically had stars in his eyes as he was spoken to.

"Blackwall! My dear friend," Lavellan cooed.  "You look like you were born wearing that uniform." The Grey Warden laughed sheepishly, blushed and mumbled a "thank you m'lady". Her eyes lit up and she gestured towards him. "Oh, there's something in your hair. Here, hold still."

Varric could see- hell, **everyone** could see- there was clearly nothing caught in his hair, but the man bent at the knees and leaned slightly forward. He jolted as the elf gently cradled his cheek with one hand, the other busy picking out some imaginary leaf. She leaned in and dared to inhale (Varric _swore_ he saw her nuzzle his hair), before releasing his head.

"The finest bathing oils in Orlais and you still smell like fresh hay, Blackwall," she giggled as he straightened. His face went as red as his uniform.

"I-I'm not used to such f-fineries, my lady, forgive me." He moved to bow apologetically but Lavellan stopped him.

"Oh please don't apologize! It's a very nostalgic scent for me."

Varric slowly shook his head in amazement as he watched the pair go back and forth. That dowager was a miracle-worker. An absolute miracle-worker.

 

* * *

 

  
The carriage ride to the Winter Palace was unusually tense. Well, aside from Josephine chattering excitedly with a perturbed Cassandra, who sat with tight fists and grunted occasionally. She was not a happy camper, although one could argue that she was _never_ a happy camper. That left Blackwall and Varric sitting opposite the Inquisitor in awkward silence. She simply stared out the small window, chin poised on her fist, lost in thought.  
For the first 15 minutes, the men simply sat, twiddling thumbs, toying with their uniforms, and making pathetic small talk. Finally Lavellan shifted in her seat, and struck up a conversation with them. She'd idly curl one of her sideburns around a finger as they talked about nothing, eyes downcast. Then she'd look up at them through thick lashes and everything would go pear-shaped. Blackwall faltered in his speech; Varric's heart did a flip-flop. 

 _Wait a minute-- that-- what the fuck? Is she trying to--??_ he thought worriedly. He pretended to scratch his chest as he forced himself to calm down. He thought he knew every damn flirting technique in the book, and the last person he expected to try and use any of them was-

Varric shook his head, ridding himself of the idiotic thought.

They pulled up to the massive wrought iron gates and filed out of the carriage. Guards lined up as Cullen barked out commands. Varric was trying his damnedest to remember what the plans were for the evening, but it was a bit hard when twenty feet from him was this... _new_ Inquisitor. Seconds before they were to meet Duke Gaspard, however, she looked over her shoulder and shot the group a smooth grin.

"Watch _this_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so damn long~


	4. Swanning About

 

 

To say that the Inquisitor was having a grand time socializing would be an understatement. _She takes to it like a duck to water_ , Varric decided as he sipped on a small, peach-colored aperitif. The last of the Inquisitor's party gathered in the main hall, and when she signaled to the announcer, everyone began taking their places along the marble banister. This was it, sink or swim. From where he stood he could see hundreds of masked heads- including the Empress'- pivot slowly towards the Inquisitor. He'd seen packs of wyverns that looked friendlier.

"... and accompanying him..."

Several audible gulps could be heard from the Inquisition.

"Lady Inquisitor Lavellan!"

The Inquisitor had one leg slightly back, bending it just so as she bowed. For some reason, the image of a swan curving its neck popped into Varric's mind. "...purger of the heretics from the ranks of the faithful..." She slowly straightened, head still bent modestly as she began making her way down the stairs. She seemed to be taking her time, though. The dwarf was about to lean over to ask Leliana what the holdup was, when--

"Champion of the blessed Andraste herself!"

At that moment, Varric's question died on his lips.

Because at that exact moment, the scruffy, sarcastic elf from the Dales stepped into a pool of candlelight cast from the chandeliers above, and stepped right out of a Chantry hymn. Her hair was suddenly illuminated into a halo of soft, white radiance. The warm candlelight danced and rippled across her uniform like sunlight across fish scales. As it did, it reflected off the fabric, giving her an aura, almost like she was the source of the light itself. Varric later heard from sources that "a gentle smile graced her blessed face, and she lifted her gaze to meet the Empress' in mutual respect". But just as quickly as the moment began, it ended. She slipped out of the spotlight, and became mortal again. Varric unfolded his arms, eyebrows slowly rising.

She had commanded everyone's attention like a master and didn't even lift a finger. The rest of her entourage lined up on either side of the grand staircase, but it seemed everyone had little interest in them-- they were in the presence of the _Herald of Andraste_.

"Renowned author, head of noble house Tethras..."

Varric continued staring at the Inquisitor, until Leliana subtly jerked her foot into his leg, startling him out of his reverie. He sprang down the first few steps like an idiot until he remembered this was a formal event, and slowed his pace. After him came-

"Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena-"  
"Get on with it!"

A hushed wave of laughter warbled throughout the ballroom; people shuffled around, glad for the small break from formality. Then it went silent again as the Empress exchanged vague pleasantries with her cousin, before adressing the Inquisitor.

"Your arrival at court is like a cool wind on a summer's day," the Orlesian empress complimented. Her guest smiled smoothly, though there was a solemn glaze over her eyes.

"Let us hope the breeze does not herald an oncoming storm."

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm telling you, Ruffles, she's going to end up with at least three suitors by the end of tonight. Mark my words."

"Only three, Varric?"

He laughed. "Make that a hundred and three."

Turns out being at the Winter Palace was a lot like being at Skyhold. Kitty-corner between a marble pillar and the large staircase leading up into the vestibule, he had the perfect vantage point for people-watching. And with the ambassador at his side, he learned all there was to know about Orlesian culture: who was sleeping with who, which duchess had murdered which comtesse, etc. Perfect fodder for his writing (and possibly a little blackmail, time permitting). Their discussions would occasionally be interrupted by groups of nobles who recognized Varric (by sight or by name), and would chat with him about his work. In the back of his mind, however, a little voice had to repeatedly warn him about offending them, no matter how hideously boring or annoying they were. When the last group of them dispersed, the both of them sighed in unison.

"Ah, forgive me Varric, but the Empress' handmaidens require my attention," Josephine spoke as she spotted the three eerie women.

"An ambassador's job is never done, is it?" he joked, giving her a weary smile.

She flashed him a smile of her own, before disappearing behind the large blues doors, leaving the dwarf on his own once again. Feeling the itch to explore, Varric made his way back to the grand ballroom. As soon as the doors were opened for him, a roar of noise and gust of warmth poured into the vestibule; it was swarming with people.

And at the center of this hurricane was- who else?- the Inquisitor herself.

Being shorter than the rest of the guests made it difficult for him to navigate, but having lived at Skyhold for some time, the rogue had a few tricks up his sleeve. He finally managed to snag not only a perfect spot to watch her work the crowds, but also a refill on his drink. Settling in, he focused on trying to pick out Lavellan's voice from the din.

"I've heard rumors that you pass judgement on anyone who offends you, Inquisitor." A sea of masks turned to face the woman who asked it. Her face was covered (naturally), but she wore a wide, tightly-ruffled collar and a cream dress. A cavalier-style hat sat at a jaunty angle on her head. The masks turned back and forth between them, a few whispers and snickers here and there. How would she respond?

Lavellan offered her a gentle smile, but her eyes told a different story. Varric knew the look well-- he'd been on the receiving end of that look, when they were fighting the Fereldan Frostback. How was she allowed to get away with such an obvious glare?!

"How very alike we are, you and I. I with my judgements, you with your Grand Game."

Even though she was masked, Varric could tell when she faltered-- she had clenched a fist so subtly, if he hadn't been near her, he wouldn't have believed Lavellan's words had an effect on her. Hushed murmurs surrounded the noblewoman, and without uttering a word further, she turned about face and exited the crowd.

_Kitten's got claws_ , he mused in slight approval. Just then, a herd of young ladies ran right past him, all gushing excitedly.

"You're the Inquisitor!" "Will you be my partner for the minuet later?" "We've been dying to meet you!"

Struggling to keep his composure at the surge of hormones, Varric muffled his laughter into a gloved hand. The Inquisitor? Being a teenager's idol-- or even better, a heartthrob? Andraste's tits, yes. This was _absolutely_ going into his book. Shit, this may have been the best part of the evening so far. He delighted in seeing her cheeks actually redden at their fawning and blatant flirting as she tried to focus on each girl. Almost like a...

Wait a minute.

"One at a time, please, one at a time! You're..." She ducked her head down and grinned shyly, rubbing the back of her neck the same way an adolescent boy would. "...you're making me blush." Laughter rang out from all around them, including the girls. Despite being lost in the crowd, Varric still gave her a knowing look, shaking his head from side to side. He knew what she was doing, and he suspected some of the older ladies and gentlemen knew, too.

She was being what they wanted her to be.

Politically and socially, it was brilliant (and he couldn't believe he just said that about the Inquisitor). After all, Josephine had warned them all to "never reveal [their] cards". To appear just as masked as they were was a bold, but ultimately successful move-- look at how many people wanted to meet her. So long as they projected their hopes onto her, she would play the part. He wondered if she felt guilty about putting up all these facades, though.

The rogue suddenly found himself forced into walking. The crowd was shifting, moving towards a refreshment table. Glass and porcelain accompanied the sounds of young girls giggling at the Inquisitor's every word.

"...but it is true, Skyhold is very foreboding. But it is also stunning. I see it as a single rose, surrounded by a million frozen thorns." Lavellan cast a hand out into the air, panning it slowly as she set the scene. She leaned in just a hair, her voice dipped low and warm. Varric strained to hear her murmur.

"And every night, when those terrible winds howl and roar, her petals tremble and shudder."

He swallowed thickly-- sounds like something he'd write. A blush crept onto his cheeks. A swift gust of cool night air made the dwarf and all those around him sigh in relief. The terrace doors had been opened to accommodate the ever-growing crowds around the elf that everyone wanted to meet. They circled like sharks, glinting dangerously with the hidden prospects of affection, or camouflaged animosity.

One such shark barged his way through the crowd. He was a rotund man in dark-colored garb, his mask scarcely keeping his jowls confined. The stench of alcohol assaulted Varric's nostrils as the man shoved him out of the way. "Move, you oaf!" he grumbled in a thick accent. In his own native tongue, Varric cursed colorfully under his breath. Not wanting to miss what he knew had to be coming, the rogue silently followed after him. He caught up just in time to see him hovering behind several young ladies and men, encircling the Inquisitor like devout followers.

"I wonder what the Inquisitor thinks of such an outrageous theory?" a copped-skinned man mused, finger rubbing his chin. The Inquisitor unfolded her arms, a look of tame curiosity on her face.

"On the contrary, Baron, I find it to be quite plausible." His laughter was clipped, bruising to anyone's ego, but when he saw the patient look on her face, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Whether or not Andraste used her religious beliefs as a political tool-"

"Inquisitor, as an elf, surely you cannot find this topic to be so interesting," the fat man interrupted.

" _Oh shit,_ " was the first thing Varric thought.

"I believe I speak for all of us when I- do you mind, my dear?-" He swung his gut into a delicate-looking woman, knocking her out of the way. "-when I say that we'd all be more interested in hearing about the Herald's romantic side." Several gasps rang out, egging him on. "Surely there must be a lusty young man or woman that the 'champion of Andraste herself' rolls around in the hay with!" Even more gasps and heated whispers erupted from the crowd. Varric covered his mouth with a hand, caught between amusement and shock. Anyone who was close enough to hear the gasps had rushed to hear what all the commotion was about. Thousands of eyes bore into the Inquisitor, waiting for the slightest flinch or twitch.

When the nobleman first addressed her, she was calm. Collected. Confined. But when he mentioned her "romantic side", she was visibly stunned. Eyebrows shot up, mouth slightly parted.

"Maker knows they are here tonight, somewhere," he sneered, looking around the crowd accusingly. "Salivating like a pack of-"

" _Oh_ ," she suddenly choked out.

Varric's face blanked.

Clutched tightly in her hand was a silk handkerchief. She raised it to her lips, quivering, though it did little to muffle her shaky breathing. Her eyes were shimmering, tears dancing and threatening to fall. In spite of this, her brows furrowed in anger. She glared at the odious man hotly for what felt like an hour, until at last she looked away. Her anger was doused, replaced with what Varric could only describe as "agony". She couldn't meet his eye, hiding behind thick lashes. The absolute look of _hurt_ on her face made the dwarf bristle. It was a little overwhelming, this emotion she had coaxed out of him (from seemingly nowhere). But nobody, even the Inquisitor, deserved to be humiliated like that, especially at an event like this.

"For you to speak of so sacred a subject as love so... _brazenly_..."

She bit the handkerchief, sinking her teeth into it with a delicacy usually reserved for fresh fruit, and turned her head away.

 

Everything went dead silent. The jovial air was gone. Everything was gone. Even the music died. The Orlesians stood silently, not unlike a crowd awaiting a public execution. Without a word, several ladies surrounded Lavellan protectively, effectively cutting the man off from her. His facade shattered as he began to back up, beginning to realize he had committed a grave error. When his shoulders bumped into the people behind him, he spun around. Numerous pairs of hands grabbed hold of him before he could run and passed him through the crowd. It was like a lamb being dragged through a pack of wolves. Making his way to the very back of the room, the dwarf watched as the man was literally cornered by three others. He couldn't hear what they muttered, but when they calmly walked away, leaving him to slide to the floor, trembling for his very life...

...Varric had a pretty good idea.


	5. Swan Song

 

The Inquisitor cut a lone figure as she stood out on the balcony. The night air was refreshingly cold after the heated events that had threatened to tear everything apart. A pair of belts hung around her hips: one carrying her daggers, the other lined with (mostly empty) glass vials. She didn't seem to mind the fact that they clashed horribly with her appearance. Judging by her slack posture, it had been a long, _long_ evening.

 

Varric was busy spilling his thoughts and musings onto parchment. The quill scritched furiously as he tried to write down what had transpired over the course of the evening: the Inquisitor meeting the Empress, her solo explorations around the palace (he'd have to ask her about that later), their clashes with Venatori out in the gardens and with Florianne's assassins in the apartments. And then there was the dance.

His hand faltered just as he was about to write the word "dance"-- it had been so much more than that. Even though she had been trained to be a gentleman, she was just as graceful, if not more so, as the Grand Duchess. Twinkletoes really did live up to her nickname, after all.

The memory was still fresh in his mind: the pair descended the staircase to join the other couples on the dance floor. They swayed in time with the music, Lavellan drifting as lazily as a summer breeze. Then she would take the lead and guide the Orlesian woman, shrinking and almost trying to physically duck out of everyone's attentions, but fate wouldn't let her. When they finally dipped, she flashed, glimmered and rippled like, like... _something._ The dwarf dragged the quill's plume along his stubbled cheek, trying to form the perfect metaphor for what she was. His mind was going in a million different directions: trying to get his thoughts out, make sure he had every detail down accurately, and write little notes about what to emphasize, what to research, etc.

His eyes drifted off the page and towards the balcony door.

The Inquisitor had spent the rest of the evening conversing with large groups of nobles, handfuls of servants, and even a few intimate one-on-ones. She'd spoken to just about everyone in her entourage. Everyone except him. He had to admit he felt slighted.  _Not_ jealous, though. That would imply that he was actively seeking her attention, and he'd been the recipient of that for much, much longer than he had wanted.

And yet...

It was just professional curiosity. Besides, the only time she'd spoken to him was at the beginning of this fiasco, and that was only to reprimand him (and make him look like an idiot). He shook his head at the memory and downed the rest of his drink, before stuffing the parchment into his portfolio and handing it off to Ruffles. He made his way to the door, but it was difficult, because almost every single person stopped him and thanked him or tried to chat him up. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tall figure heading out onto the balcony, and quickly tried to wrap up the conversation he was trapped in.

Leaning on the heavy blue door frame, he maintained a safe distance while staying within earshot. His curiosity couldn't be quenched, though-- he had to spy a look. The taller was an Orlesian nobleman, who wore a heavy cloak made of dark burgundy cloth, with a black fur collar. Varric could just barely see Lavellan's white hair peeking out past it.

"Any aid I can provide the Inquisition, Herald..." The man's voice was soft, but not at all weak-sounding. Somewhat husky, but that was understandable after an evening of drinking and gossiping. Varric had a sneaking suspicion that wasn't the case with him, however.

"It would be an honor to have your men serve under our banner, Duke," The Inquisitor welcomed. Eventually as the two talked back and forth, their positions shifted completely so that they were parallel with the door, allowing Varric full view. They looked so different, complete polar opposites. She was refined, smooth, opalescent, whereas he seemed more scruffy, earthy, natural. They should have switched places, but tonight was a night where anything was possible.

"How long will you be staying in Halamshiral?"

"Just a few more days."

"Ah." He nodded, somewhat lost in thought, his mask catching the light from the doorway. "Then it will give me the opportunity to- _do you know you're quite enchanting?_ "

The duke took a step towards her. His voice had dropped low, as had Varric's stomach. He could feel his face growing hotter with each passing second, along with the feeling that he wasn't supposed to hear that. Or any of this.

 _This guy has_ no _idea what he's walking into. Or who he's flirting with_ , the blond dwarf thought feverishly, trying to calm his fluttering heart. The entire situation had suddenly made him uncomfortable-- and that was a first. Should he leave? It was like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He should definitely leave. If this were anyone else, he'd be taking down their every word, but this...

"Wh-what a lovely thing to say...!" she exclaimed, not expecting the compliment. Even behind the mask, one could see his eyes searching hers, until he stepped back and looked away ashamedly.

"That wasn't right of me, I'm sorry."

"Oh please don't apologize!" She threw a hand up to stay him, and when he glanced up with a cautiously hopeful look, she reciprocated it. "I won't hold you to it. Even if you change your mind."

The duke's face softened, a warm smile unfolding, and he gently took up the elf's gloved hand and planted a kiss on it.

"I never will."

 

* * *

 

_Enchanting..._

His words echoed in her mind as she paced about. The way his voice rumbled as he said them made a shiver nip down her spine. He was an admirable man and his support would be well-received, yes, but... he'd called her "enchanting". Lavellan couldn't remember if she'd ever been called anything close to that. She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried to focus on why having the Duke as an ally would be a boon for the Inquisition (and not herself). He could provide additional funds, well-disciplined troops, not to menti-

"Well well well."

The familiar, husky voice of a certain dwarf nearly made her jolt, but weeks of training had beaten it down to a minor flinch. She turned to see the shorter silhouette walk through the doorway.

"The hero of the hour, shying away from the adoring crowds to steal a moment to herself? If I didn't know it, Inquisitor, I'd say you've been reading my books," he teased. The elf was so caught off-guard she failed to form a comeback, though she did a great impression of a fish gasping for air.

Instead, he took a spot next to her and they simply stood, looking out at the night sky. Whatever discomfort had been stirred up gradually evaporated into the nippy air, until a quiet, neutral comfort had set in. The soft warble of the guests, the faint tinkling of glass and porcelain, crickets chirping, the undercurrent of music...

 _This is nice_ , Varric thought. Amber eyes mellowed as he let out a peaceful sigh, a comfort he hadn't enjoyed in a long time.

 

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

For a moment, he almost didn't realize she was asking him a question.

"Me?"

As soon as he looked over at her, he instantly regretted it: the moon was caught in her hair, her eyes illuminated, like stained glass windows. Varric didn't sense any malice or shadowed sarcasm in her tone; it was just as soft and hopeful as the smile on her face. She genuinely meant it. And for the first time ever, he found himself slowly smiling right back at her. A mutual understanding, at long last.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did." The affirmation made the elf's smile widen, as though he had just given her the best response. She turned away from him and let out a sigh of relief, hand on her chest. For a split second, when the rush of vapor poured from her mouth and moonlight glinted over her uniform, the dwarven author imagined her not as an elf, but as a dragon.

"Why, were you worried that I wouldn't?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"W-well, I-- I wanted to make sure everyone did." The Herald of Andraste actually twiddled her thumbs as she said this. Varric snorted out a laugh.

"Trust me, they did. But you know what I can't get over?" Lavellan shook her head. "That between the four of us, **I'm** the bit of rough."

She tilted her head lightly. "Bit of rough?"

"Aw, you know. The one who doesn't own a shaving kit and doesn't have fifty middle names." They both ended up chuckling at this, urging him to continue. "Seriously! Forget Cassandra, did you see Blackwall tonight? He looks _good_!" Lavellan had to muffle her giggling behind a hand.

"And then there's you!" he chortled.

Varric gestured to her casually, still coasting on the jovial air between them. But then their eyes met, and an unknown feeling came over the pair. Neither could put their finger on it, but suddenly the awkward tension was back in full swing. The dwarf's words died in his throat, and they both retreated back to the ledge, keeping a safe distance between them and a mutual vow of silence.

 _Someone_ had to break that ice, though.

"Well what about you, did you have a good time tonight?" the dwarf asked, shooting her a quick side glance. "I think I can safely bet you're not used to being around this many lords and ladies."

The Inquisitor just stared ahead, but a look of eagerness grew on her face. " I... I liked it."

Varric did a double-take. "Wait, really?!" He shot her a dubious look. "...Are you pulling my leg? Did you not see all the blackmailing? All the murdering? That one guy tied up in Celene's bedchamber?"

"I--" She paused and pressed her knuckles to her lips, choosing her words carefully. "I liked who I got to be." As she spoke, her eyes softened, a wistful look clouding them. "When I'm like this, I'm not the Inquisitor, I'm not Lavellan, I'm..."

A yearning smile tugged at her lips.

"I'm from another time. Another Age."

 

It wasn't often Varric was left speechless. This was one of those times, though. He stared at her for a good long while, eyes soft but mind in a whirl. Another time? Another _Age?_   Turning to face the vast sky, the author reflected on her words, but was distracted by the fact that they had come from her. _Her_. Of all people! When did she get all profound? He rested his chin on a fist, gaze intensifying.

Tonight was full of surprising developments.

However, the puzzle she had set before him remained unsolved, filed away in the rogue's mind for later.

"So," he finally asked. "In this Age of yours, do people like you throw fat bastard nobles to the baying crowd?" The elf blurted out a laugh.

"You saw that?"

"How could I not? That was pretty amazing, you know. Might have to go in my book. Next to saving the Empress, of course." Varric's praise made the elven woman shrug modestly.

"'For you to speak of love so... _brazenly_...'" he mimicked, pulling the same hurt expression she had, hand clutching an imaginary handkerchief. He then broke character and looked at her bemusedly. "That Duchess really taught you every trick in the book, didn't she?"

This time, the Inquisitor really _did_ jolt. She clapped a gloved hand over her mouth and looked away hurriedly, face going red.

"What? Did I misquote you?" the author chuckled as he heard her mumble something unintelligible. Then silence.

"She... didn't teach me that," she finally admitted in a sheepish tone, and covered her mouth again.

He blinked once, then twice, and then broke into laughter. Hysterics, actually. A hand covered his eyes as he leaned against the balcony. The Inquisitor shied away from him the harder he laughed, looking terribly embarrassed. She kept an eye on the doorway in case the other guests heard his raucous howling. For a moment it looked as though he might fall off the balcony itself. Mercifully for Lavellan, the fits subsided as he caught his breath, the occasional giggle slipping out inbetween gasps. He even wiped a tear of mirth from his eyes, leaving them sparkling with energy from this delightful discovery. Undoubtedly it would be kept out of his book about the Inquisitor; just another secret between them.

"Aahh, Twinkletoes, you're amazing," he breathed happily. He surprised both of them when he leaned in, wrapped an arm around her neck, and planted a kiss on her temple. A part of his brain screamed "HERE BE DRAGONS", but as the seconds rolled by, the warning went unheeded. Her hair was soft and warm against his lips, he noted, like eiderdown. The Inquisitor had braced herself against his chest with a free hand, eyes as big as dinner plates. Varric hadn't noticed as his own had fluttered shut, but to be honest, he didn't really give a shit right at that moment. The energy thrumming in his veins was now condensing, changing into something that made his chest feel hot. At some point, he heard a noise rumble from his throat.

When he pulled back, Varric wasn't quite sure how she would react. He was still getting over it himself- did he seriously just do that? He almost never acted on impulse. And did he _moan?_ He better not have fucking moaned. What he got was the Inquisitor, unmasked: face bright red, mouth struggling to form words. Her composure was completely gone. She clutched the spot where he had kissed her, eyebrows raised in disbelief and shock.

"Y--You shouldn't ha-have done that," she stammered.

"Figured you earned it," he replied back, voice a little huskier than usual.

 

"Inquisitor?"

The pair sprang apart like guilty adolescents.

An elven servant stood in the doorway. She was probably used to seeing far worse.

"The Empress would like a word with you."

"I-I'll be right there!" Lavellan called to her. As soon as the servant left, Lavellan was busy adjusting her uniform and generally trying to reassemble her shattered mask. When she raised a hand to fix her hair, though, she stopped herself. After an agonizingly long moment, she looked over her shoulder at the dwarf, who was leaning back against the ledge. His cheeks were a little red, yes, but he was smiling. A private smile, just for her. Lavellan swallowed audibly and bolted for the door.

When he was sure she was out of sight, Varric spun around and let out a shaky breath, hands clutching the ledge for dear life. All bravado and self-confidence suddenly flew out the window. He almost never lost self-control-- not while he was sober, anyway. It all just happened like that! Like he wasn't even controlling his body! This was beyond fucked up-- this was depraved.

 _She's still the same old spoiled, delusional bully she's always been,_ he thought, eyes darting back and forth. _Th-the spell breaks at midnight and all that shit. Right?_

As his mind raced for some logical explanation, the dwarf's fingers idly brushed over his lips. The resulting wave of emotion made his cheeks burn. He needed a drink. Or two. Or a hundred and three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ͡ ° ͜ʖ ͡ – ✧

**Author's Note:**

> Idk why AO3 is acting all weird but I had to repost this. Alas


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